


Lacuna

by ScumbagSimon



Series: Alive Together [1]
Category: Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys - My Chemical Romance (Album), My Chemical Romance
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Brotherly Love, Brothers, Family Reunions, First Meetings, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Gunshot Wounds, No Romance, Reunions, Trans Kobra Kid (Danger Days), Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-18
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:27:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24254368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScumbagSimon/pseuds/ScumbagSimon
Summary: “Emily Way.”He squeezed his eyes shut and shivered. He could feel the shock pouring off Party in waves, threatening to drown him.Party's voice was steely and cold when he spoke. “How the hell do you know that name.”Pressure built in his throat. “I know it because it was mine.”
Series: Alive Together [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1750810
Comments: 1
Kudos: 26





	Lacuna

The door of the shop creaking open sounds eerily like a scream, and instantly sets Kobra on edge.  
Not that he wasn't on edge before then, to be fair. He always was when he entered a new place, which, when living as a rebel outlaw in the desert with nothing more than a few cans of beans and a motorbike to your name, was often. Scratch that, it was all the time. It must come in handy, though, considering he was still alive and kicking.   
The shop was dim and dirty, sand clustering up against the walls and in the corners like whoever owned the shop couldn't be bothered to do more than shove it to the side. The splintery wood floors creaked gently with every step, sand clustered in the cracks between them as well. The shelves were in similar condition, bits of the wood crumbling off, the nails in odd angles and rusty. The objects on the shelves were hardly any better, chipped and scratched and cracked in all manners of ways. With flickering curiosity he ran a finger along the cool surface of a snow globe that was only half full of the mysterious snow globe liquid, and appeared to have a small figurine of Jesus in the middle. Next to it sat a notebook with half the pages torn out, with the other half crinkled and warped like they'd been dipped in water. Next to that was a blue plastic water bottle with dried up mold on the bottom. Kobra ignored the rest of the stuff. He wasn't here to buy anything, if he could help it. He only had a few credits left in his pocket anyway.  
You see, in the past year (plus a couple of months), Kobra had spent very little money on luxuries. Anything that wasn't traded for food and water was traded for one of two things--testosterone, in whatever form he could get it, and information. Usually killjoys were fine with giving out information for free, but some of the stingier or more desperate ones coaxed a few credits out of Kobra before they spilled their guts. He hated that kind of person, especially considering the information he was seeking. Information about a lost loved one.   
When Kobra was twelve, his older brother left the city, leaving him behind. He was sure there was no malicious intent behind it. Maybe there was even a good reason, like he was protecting him from something. Whatever the case, Gerard Way was the reason Kobra left the city. He wanted to reconcile with the guy who had been his best and only friend for twelve years, the guy who was his only living family (his parents were still alive, but he didn't consider them family. not anymore.). He'd spent the year and a half wandering the desert, following rumors and stories of a killjoy with cherry-red hair and a snarky streak, who had helped many a killjoy out of a tough spot for nothing more than because he wanted to. Apparently, he was traveling with two other people, a tall guy with lots of curly brown hair, and a short guy with a scar on the side of his face. Finding out about those two had been a big breakthrough, and made it much easier for Kobra to explain who he was looking for to other killjoys. An even bigger breakthrough though was learning what his brother's chosen name was. Party Poison, a fitting name for the memory in Kobra's mind. A guy with a small-toothed smile and a pinky that stuck out from the rest of his hand like his own version of flipping the bird. He remembered the drastic change when Party had stopped taking the pills, and he remembered feeling empty when he woke up one morning to find nothing in his bed but a handwritten note, containing just four words.  
"I'll miss you, Emily."  
It was all Kobra had to cling to in his time in the city, and then the desert. Emily, of course, being his deadname, he'd considered more than once ripping the edge of the note off, so he didn't have to feel that displeased shudder go up his spine every time he read the damn thing. He promised himself that if (when, he reprimanded himself) he found Party, he would burn it, the only remnant he had of Battery City, but also the only remnant of his brother.  
Destroya, he missed him.  
Lifting his chin and trying to act as if he owned the place, Kobra purposefully strode up to the wooden counter, behind which sat a killjoy with orange hair and a scar on his nose reading what looked like a cookbook.  
"I need information," Kobra leaned on the counter with one hand, keeping his gaze steady. "Can ya help me?"  
"Depends whatcha need," The killjoy's eyes flickered up to Kobra for only a second before he looked back to his book, but he didn't appear to be reading it.   
"I need to find a killjoy," Kobra drummed his fingers in the counter. "Red hair, travels with two guys, goes by the name of Party Poison."  
The killjoy flipped the page. "Next two isles over."  
Something short-circuited in Kobra's head, and his cool facade slipped away like a wet bar of soap. "What?"  
"Next two isles over," The killjoy repeated. "And if you're not gonna buy anythin, beat it."  
It was as if somebody hooked onto Kobra's soul and yanked it to the side. Everything felt off, like he was floating. His body felt light, but he was nauseous, and it felt like there was a nervous lizard scrabbling around inside his stomach.   
His hands suddenly shaking, he walked two isles over like he was in a trance. Maybe the killjoy was wrong. There was no way that after a year and how many months of searching he had found him. There was no way.  
But there he was.  
His hair was indeed cherry red. The sides of it were shaved, revealing a darker brown color, but on the top it was long, tumbling down to reach his jaw. He looked different. Well, it had been seven years, of course he would. His jaw had lost the young softness that it once had and now was sharp and pointed. His eyes were even sharper, hazel like honey on leaves, long dark lashes framing them. He might have been wearing eyeliner, but it was hard to tell. His shoulders, sticking out of an orange and blue shirt, were bony and pale. Around his waist was a blue leather jacket, clearly better taken care of than Party himself. His nose was pointed and slightly upturned, and his mouth was crooked like he was used to holding a cigarette on one side. His cheeks were dusted with sunburn, and there was a small scar interrupting his right eyebrow. This was a completely different person than Kobra had known.   
Then he turned, his hand (the pinky stuck out just the same) moving down to ghost over his thigh holster, where a sunshine yellow gun covered in stickers resided. "Can I help you?"  
His voice was the same. Exactly the same. Ringing with the sarcasm that became Party's signature before he disappeared past those looming concrete walls. It was even and soft, exactly what Kobra remembered, but that wasn't what he focused on.   
Party didn't know who he was.  
That was fair, he supposed dimly. He'd changed a lot too--testosterone and seven years would do that. He was aware that the baby-soft face that Party remembered was vastly different from the sharp, thin one that was before him, and that he was taller than Party would remember too, and of course there was the fact that he didn't have boobs--not visible ones anyway. His hair was only brown (the same shade as Party's) on the sides, the top having been bleached into a white-yellow color. He was different and Party was different but Party didn't know who he was.  
"Hello," his voice was very small.  
"Hello?" Party raised an eyebrow, the one with the scar. "If that's all…"  
Kobra wanted to scream. 'No, that's not all,' he almost said. 'In fact, it's very far from all. You're actually my brother who abandoned me in a hell-city ten years ago--not that I hold it against you--and I'm your brother who you thought was your sister and had been spending the last year and a half scouring the desert and following endless wild goose chase to find you because you were the only person who was ever really kind to me and I missed you. Surprise!'  
Maybe he would have said that. He might have even yelled it. Unfortunately, this was when Kobra's signature bad luck kicked in, and a tall man with lots of curly brown hair burst into the room, followed closely by a short guy with a scar on his face.   
"There's a patrol van coming," the tall guy gasped. "Hurry, there might still be--"  
But he too was interrupted. Not by a man bursting into the room, but by the sound of screeching tires outside, followed by a banging door.   
"Shit," Party pulled out his sunshine yellow gun and nodded at Kobra. "Get in the back, find a way out and run. Were used to shit like this, we've got it covered."  
With that, the three of them took off out front. Kobra didn't even consider following his instructions. Instead he pulled out his own gun--cherry red like Party's hair--and quickly crouch walked over to the door. In the time it took him to do that, blaster fire had broken out. Party and the tall guy were standing next to a white vehicle covered in stickers and with a giant spider painted on the hood, but the short guy was still on the shack's sandy porch, crouching behind an upturned card table. This appeared to be the reason the other two hadn't taken off yet, and as selfish as it may have been, Kobra was immensely glad.  
With a quick movement, Kobra joined the short guy behind the card table. Their eyes met for a minute--both hazel, though different shades--and the guy nodded, seemingly deciding he was an ally.  
"Hey there," he said casually, as if they were friends meeting for lunch. "Come to join the party?"  
"Well I wasn't just gonna turn tail and run," Kobra charged up his blaster. "I'm not a fuckin coward, and I wasn't gonna leave you three to die."  
"Huh," the guy nodded, peeking above the table for a moment to shoot a Drac. "Well, I'm Fun Ghoul. My friends over there are Jet Star and Party Poison. Nice to meet ya."  
"Likewise," Kobra leaned around the table, took aim, and fired. "I'm Kobra Kid."  
"Rad."  
Kobra wasn't quite sure what happened. One minute, everything was going fine and dandy, Dracs dropping like flies. The next moment, Party had dropped his gun or something like that, because he had moved out from behind their car, and there was a Drac about to shoot him, and Kobra had vaulted over the table and ran faster than he thought possible and tackled the Drac with reckless abandon.  
He'd just gotten his brother back. He sure as hell wasn't about to lose him now.  
There was a quick struggle as the Draculoid and him each held onto each other's arms and tried to shoot, but finally Kobra got his aim straight and fired, and the body went limp. He rolled away from it and sat up, only to find that the Draculoids were all lying dusted on the ground, and everything was silent again.  
"Well, that was fun," Fun Ghoul walked out from behind the card table and hopped off the porch with an exaggerated hop, landing in the sand softly.  
"Fun is a word for it," the tall guy, Jet Star, glanced around as if double-checking, then holstered his gun.  
"Yup," Party shoved sweaty cherry hair out of his face. "Thanks for the assist, kid."  
That funny feeling was back, like somebody had knocked his soul out of alignment. "You're welcome."   
"Never in all my time in this godforsaken wasteland have I seen somebody tackle a Drac like that," Ghoul grinned at him like a feral child. "That was rad, man."  
"Thanks," Kobra automatically accepted the compliment. "Your shooting is pretty good, too."  
"Nothing compared to yours!" Ghoul insisted. "Takes me a couple shots to get one down, but you were like "pew pew" James Bonding this shit up! Insanity, my man, insanity."  
"If you're done gushing," Jet Star turned from Ghoul to Kobra. "You've got a cut there."  
Kobra reached up to where he was gesturing, a nasty scratched on his forehead, probably from the Drac. He wiped away some of the blood and successfully diverted its path away from his eyes. "Yeah."  
"I might have a bandaid in the car," Jet Star offered. "You know, as a payment for saving Party."  
"Nobody saved me, motherfucker," Party crossed his arms. "I had the situation covered."  
"Uh huh."  
"That's nice of you," Kobra interrupted. "But I don't need to be paid. Anybody would have done it."  
"Anybody should have," Ghoul snorted. "Not would have."  
Feeling a bit exposed by all the compliments, Kobra looked around for his bike, and subsequently, his helmet, to cover his face with. However, instead of being met with the red and black motorbike he'd had almost since he left the city, he just saw his helmet, lying on its side in the sand. Tire tracks traced away from it.  
Walking over with a sigh, he picked the yellow helmet off the ground and poured out the loose bits of sand. "Damn coward cashier took my fuckin bike."  
He took a moment to stare sadly at the distance, where the orange-haired guy with the cookbook was no doubt driving off, feeling pleased with himself. Then he turned around to see the other three killjoys glancing at each other, like they were talking without actually talking. Did they really know each other that well? Kobra couldn't help but feel a slight twinge of jealousy wiggle in his stomach.  
"You could come with us," Ghoul finally offered. "Y'know, until you can get a new bike."  
Kobra blinked. He couldn't say he'd never taken a moment to think about running through the desert with Party, two brothers, reunited. Somehow he'd never thought of Jet and Ghoul being a part of that too. It was odd, but he found he didn't mind the idea. The more the merrier, that was the saying, right?

Kobra did end up going with them. He sat in the backseat of their car next to Ghoul, his helmet in his lap. Party drove, and Jet sat shotgun, fiddling with the radio as Party instructed. It was comfortable but surreal, and for some reason, Kobra didn't speak up, didn't say anything along the lines of 'hey I'm actually your brother that you may not even remember'. He kept his mouth shut and occasionally rubbed at the drying blood on his face and looked out the window, thinking about how nice it was to ride in a car for once and not on a bike with sand in your eyes and a wobbly front wheel.  
He didn't tell Party the next day, either, when he woke up leaning against one of the trans am's tires with the sun rising in front of him. Not the next day, when they arrived at their hideout, an old diner/gas station with red leather seats oozing yellow foam and dusted with sand, and a bunch of old tables that we're all stood against one wall, some with cans of food on them and some with half-played games of cards, and even one with a puzzle that seemed to be missing most of its pieces, but may have been a horse. He didn't tell him the next day either, or the next, or the next, or the next. And for a while, he wasn't sure why he felt no compulsion to tell Party the secret that was eating him alive. But on the thirteenth day, it hit him.  
He was scared.  
Scared of Party wrinkling his nose and calling him "Emily". Scared of being once again regarded as a girl, as she and her, and maybe even being hurt by him. He knew it was silly. From what he knew of Party, he would never attack somebody just because they preferred different pronouns, but he still feared, and he kept his mouth shut, and he stared from across the room and prayed that maybe Party would figure it out on his own, or at least that Jet and Ghoul would let him stay long enough to grow a pair and tell Party himself.

A month passed as he traveled with the three killjoys. He really did figure that they would only let him stay until he could get a bike, but after a while, it seemed like maybe he was there for good. In the time he stayed he learned a lot about them. For instance, Jet, though he looked scary, was really a huge sweetheart, and Ghoul called him ‘mom’ because of his tendency to worry about them. He had a helmet that looked like an astronauts, so sometimes they called him ‘spaceman’ too. He liked to read, especially if the book was long and boring and probably written in the 1800s.   
He learned that Ghoul was practically a child, if there was a child who swore like a sailor and had a particular skill with bombs. More than once Kobra witnessed him making some sort of explosive, one that definitely wasn't legal. Not that he cared, anyway, most of (if not all) the stuff they did was illegal. Ghoul was hot-headed too, and he seemed to take great pleasure in annoying people, mostly Jet and Party, though there was one time he came up to Kobra and just sat in his lap with no warning. That was an interesting time.   
He also, to his great happiness, learned about Party. He remembered a lot about him from when he was in the city, but under the influence of the pills, his personality had been muted. He learned that Party had a very giggly laugh, and always leaned back when he did it. Under his badass exterior he was actually quite a smiley person, and he liked to draw. At one point he showed Kobra a drawing of him that he had done the previous day and tried to give it to him, but Kobra insisted that Party keep it. He tapped his fingers on stuff a lot, tables, chairs, his leg, other people, but it was usually an aimless tap, except now and then he'd do it and hum along to whatever tune was going through his mind at the moment. He liked working on the Trans Am, and sometimes you'd see nothing of him all day except his legs sticking out from under the car, and the next day he'd have grease smudged all over his face, like he'd tried to wipe it off, until Jet would do it for him. Occasionally he put his hair up in a ponytail or bun, but most days he'd let it stay loose, seemingly taking great pleasure in letting it fall into a curtain over his face, messy and greasy. He chewed his nails, so they were always in short, jagged stumps, but he'd paint them too, so you'd often hear him spitting out neon green nail polish onto the floor, along with bits of nails. Kobra thought it was disgusting, but he didn't say anything about it. He was just glad he hadn't been given those genes.   
Another half a month passed, and Kobra still didn't say a word about who he was.   
One day, when he was well settled into their little group, he went on a water run. It was a quick drive to the canal—probably about thirty, thirty-five miles. It might seem like a lot, but distances between landmarks are huge in the desert, so they might as well have just been going down the road. It was just Kobra and Party in the Trans Am, and a smattering of empty water jugs in the backseat. Canal water was muddy, but drinkable. It was also very heavy, which Kobra discovered as he and Party hauled it out of the seven-foot-deep canal, up the slope and into the vehicle. At one point he almost slipped backwards and fell all the way down, but Party, who was at the top, reached out and grabbed the front of his yellow tank top, saving him by barely an inch. Kobra offered him a quiet nod and a “thanks.”  
As well as not talking to Party about who he was, he didn't talk to him about much else, either. He was afraid that Party would find out he wasn't born as a man, and he was afraid of being rejected, more so than he was by Jet or Ghoul. He figured that Ghoul and Jet knew he was avoiding Party for some reason, which is probably why they seemed so insistent on sending the two of them alone. They probably wanted them to talk it out.  
Maybe it wasn't a bad idea, Kobra mused as he crouched at the edge of the water, filling his jug. Next to him, Party did the same, the tips of his black boots sinking into the mud. This would be a pretty good opportunity to tell him. They were alone, and Party seemed friendly enough with him, and they weren't in any immediate danger. Maybe he should just spit it out.  
Scratch that last thing. They were in danger.  
This became apparent when they heard tires pulling up above them. Over the quiet noise of the water, they hadn't heard an engine coming towards them, and now it was too late. Kobra pushed his half-full water jug into a clump of reeds and jumped over the water, pulling out his gun as he went. He clambered up the opposite side of the creek without much difficulty, then pointed his gun at the van full of Dracs, pouring out of their vehicle like ants from their hill.   
This wasn't exactly a good place for a clap. Party was at a bad angle, crouching directly under the crumbling concrete bridge, gun in hand. The only shelter avaliable for Kobra was a scraggly bramble bush, and that wouldn't do much to stop the Dracs' guns if they weren't set to stun, which they surely werent. He hid behind it nonetheless, wishing that the Dracs had pulled up on the opposite side of the canal, so he could at least hide behind the Trans Am.  
At the very least, the Draculoids didn't notice Party, who was quite hidden under the bridge. They did, however, see Kobra, who's yellow shirt stood out like a construction vest, even from behind the bush. Blaster fire rained around him, so much that he couldn't even pop out to shoot. He was pinned.  
It was then that Party emerged, having crept widthwise along the underside of the bridge and appeared at the Dracs' unprotected left flank, taking down three in three shots. With the fire now split between the two of them, Kobra was able to peek out from the side of his hiding place and take down one. He was still less protected than he'd like, but the bramble bush was better than—  
His thoughts were interrupted when a single shot slipped through the branches and grazed his side. He hissed and drew back, clutching the wound, then heard a thump and the blaster fire stopped.  
He dared a look, to find that the last Draculoid was lying on the ground with a bloodstain on its chest. He sheathed his gun and walked to Party, who glanced at his wound with concern.  
“You okay?”  
“Just a graze,” Kobra panted. “It'll heal.”  
With a nod of acknowledgment, Party holstered his gun as well and slid down the embankment to retrieve the water jugs. Luckily those were the last two, and one was more of a canteen than a jug. Party could get them himself, thank Destroya.  
Kobra lifted his shirt to look at the wound. It was dark red on the edge, as all blaster wounds were, burnt skin hot to the touch. It was indeed a graze though. Painful, but it would heal with nothing more than a scar and a memory. Jet would probably make a fuss about it, but that was just Jet for you.  
Movement caught his eye, and he turned to the side. The last Drac, the one with red on its chest, had feebly lifted its gun to point straight at Kobra. He reached for his own gun, but it was too late. The Draculoid's gun went off with a sharp electrical noise, and Kobra hit the dirt before he could even register the pain.  
The pain came, though, as Party clambered back up the edge of the slope, jugs in his arms. He saw Kobra on the ground, a bloodstain rapidly forming on his shirt, and the Drac, arm still lifted, and seemed to put two and two together. Another blaster noise zipped through the air, but this time it came from Party, who had shot quicker than a snake, killing the Drac dead, for good this time.  
He hurried into Kobra's line of vision, skidding on the sand as his knees hit it. The wound was right below his ribcage, steadily turning his blood to magma. His chest heaved, and he winced at the pain and the sun in his eyes. It felt like somebody was holding a blowtorch to his skin, slowly burning through flesh, blistering his skin. He shivered and gasped as Party ran from his side, then returned a moment later with a bandana, pressing it into the wound. Black spots danced in Kobra's vision.  
“You hold on,” Party's voice was shaky. “You hold on, because it's a fifteen minute drive back, and that's if I'm going top speed. I'm gonna get you in the car, okay? Back seat, so you can stretch your legs. Nice 'n comfy.”  
Party slipped one arm under his arms and one under his knees, then stood with visible effort. Kobra groaned loudly into his own bloodstained hand as his wound was jostled, bleeding with fresh effort. As Party staggered to the car he noticed that the sand where he'd been lying was a dark color. He was set in the backseat, then fell back with another muffled groan, biting his knuckle.   
“You hold this here,” Party moved Kobra's free hand to the bandana. “I'm gonna drive. You'll be okay, I promise. You're gonna be fine.”  
It seemed like he was telling himself that more than he was telling Kobra. Nevertheless, he shut the door and clambered into the front seat, wasting no time taking off. Kobra was pressed into the backrest for a moment before his body adjusted.  
His head was swimming now, and though he pressed his hand onto the soaked bandana he could still feel blood trickling lazily down the sides of his stomach. If he lived, he was gonna have a hell of a scar.  
His vision began to fade, and he panicked. Maybe he was passing out, or maybe he was dying, but if it was the second thing he wanted Party to know. It would be better to at least be remembered as a man, not as a little girl in a black and white dress.  
“I'm sorry,” he whispered, though his voice was hoarse, and he wasn't sure Party could hear him over the engine. Still, it was all the volume he could muster, so he continued. “I missed you. That's why I left. I wanted... to tell you my... my name. I didn't want you... to remember me like you remember me... not like that.”  
His vision faded faster, and so did his breath. He could feel it getting shallower.   
“I missed you,” He gasped. “You left me... it's okay... but I'm not... I'm not Em...”  
His vision faded into white. Bright white. It hurt.  
Please let the afterlife be colorful, he wished silently. Then like a candle being extinguished, he was gone.

Darkness slowly gave way to bright colors. Cherry red, electric blue, sunshine yellow.   
He blinked a few times and drew in a shaky breath, and the world slowly became less fuzzy. He was on the floor, on a sweat-smelling mattress. A spring poked him in the back. Next to the bed, on a cushion, sat Party, scribbling something in a worn notebook. On the other side of the room was Jet, reading a book but not flipping the pages. Ghoul leaned on his shoulder, tapping his fingers on his knees and staring at the wall.   
There was a thin teal blanket gently placed over him, reaching up to his shoulders. His shirt was gone, but his binder was still there, though it was unzipped in the back so he could breathe. There was a rough bandage around his midriff, and under that a dull, aching pain.   
He watched Party, who glanced up from his notebook for a second, then did a double take and dropped it with a small thump. The pencil clattered to the floor.  
Jet looked up at the noise, and Ghoul, too. They all saw Kobra, with his eyes open and alert, and broke into grins. Kobra couldn't help but smile back.  
“You're alive!” Party seemed to be restraining himself from hugging him. “You're alive—holy shit!”  
“Doctor Spaceman's best work!” Ghoul lightly punched Kobra's shoulder. “You son of a bitch!”  
“Ouch,” Kobra grinned. “I'm alive.”  
“You're out of the woods, as long as you don't get an infection,” Jet seemed extremely relieved. “But recovery is gonna last a while.”  
In the end, recovery didn't last nearly as long as Jet wanted it to. He sat up in bed later that day, and the next morning he walked out of the room to lean against the counter. Jet all but carried him back into his room, but the next day Kobra was up again. The few painkillers they had weren't very strong, but they lasted a week, and by then the pain was dulled enough that Kobra could bear it without passing out. Jet told him that they didn't want to take his binder off without consent, but he shouldn't wear it while recovering from an injury. Kobra agreed to wear one of Jet's baggy shirts instead, and though it took some convincing he acknowledged it did feel much more comfortable. To his surprise, though all of them now knew he was born a girl, none of them seemed to care. They continued to refer to him as 'he', never even once insinuating he was anything other than a man. It was nice to know he would be accepted, even by Party, but now there was a new problem.  
He was still scared to say anything.  
And now he wasn't sure why.  
Maybe he didn't want to ruin what he had rebuilt with his brother. Maybe he was still worried of Party rejecting him. Maybe he was just an anxious little bitch. Whatever the reason, he kept his mouth shut, though he was a bit more talkative to Party from then on.   
After a few weeks, the bandages were finally removed, revealing pink scar tissue stretching over a nearly circular spot on his abdomen, a mark that would certainly follow him for the rest of his life. A few days after the bandages were removed he was permitted to wear his binder again—and though it made his ribs ache, he was grateful. He kept Jet's shirt, though, considering his old one had a massive hole in the front and was covered in bloodstains. He'd miss it, but it was better the shirt than him.  
A few weeks, maybe three, after the bandages were removed, he found himself awake in the night with no compulsion to sleep. Rather than stay on the smelly mattress (which seemed to have become his after the incident), he crept out to the back of the diner and climbed the rickety ladder onto the roof, settling down to sit on the concrete and watch the stars. The desert had no lights, so the milky way was in full view—orange and red stretched in a long, cloudy ribbon across the sky. He couldn't pick out any constellations, but still, it was pretty.   
He'd only been sitting for a minute when someone joined him. It was Party, hair ruffled with sleep, looking at Kobra with a scrutinizing gaze.  
“Can't sleep?”  
Kobra shook his head in response, and Party sat next to him.  
“I heard you walk through the diner.”  
Kobra nodded.  
“I've been meaning to talk to you.”  
Ice froze Kobra's blood, but he didn't turn to look at Party. “What about?”  
“When you were shot, and I was driving you home—” (fear solidified in his stomach) “—You said some stuff. I think you were delirious and you thought I was someone else. It's none of my business, but I was just wondering... who did you think you were talking to?”  
This was Kobra's chance to say he was talking to someone else. His chance to once again slip out of telling Party who he was, and postponing the eventual reveal.  
But he was tired. And he didn't want to run away anymore.  
He turned to Party and locked eyes for just a moment. “I was talking to you.”  
He looked back at the sky, all too aware that Party was now examining him with a searching gaze, confused and intruiged. He wasn't any less afraid, but maybe he was just a bit braver.  
“Emily Way.”  
He squeezed his eyes shut and shivered. He could feel the shock pouring off Party in waves, threatening to drown him.   
Party's voice was steely and cold when he spoke. “How the hell do you know that name.”  
Pressure built in his throat. “I know it because it was mine.”  
There was a moment of horrific silence, stretched between them like a rubber band, thin and threatening to break. Something inside of him hurt.  
“Emily?”  
He pressed his chin into the arms drawn around his knees. “No, no. Not anymore, I— I'm not Emily anymore, I'm not, but I'm sorry Gerard, I missed you and I couldn't stay in the city anymore, I was trying to find you and _I meant to tell you—“_  
His voice dissolved, but it didn't matter, because Party had reached out and wrapped his arms around him, and now the two of them crouched on the roof under the stars, pulling each other in like they were afraid the other was going to disappear again.   
They held each other, and Kobra noticed Party smelled like the underside of a car, and cigarettes. It was nice.  
Then Party pulled away and cupped his face. He realized both of them were crying.   
“I missed you too,” Party swallowed, his eyes hungrily searching Kobra's face for a glimpse of his lost sister. “I didn't want to leave, but the desert— I knew it was dangerous. I was going to come back for you, I swear, but last year I came across somebody who had lived right next to our house, and he said that it was only our parents, and I thought that BL/ind did something to you, I thought you were gone—“  
“I'm alive,” Kobra gulped in cool air. “I'm alive, and so are you, and now we can be alive together. Us and Jet and Ghoul, because those two idiots would never survive without us.”  
Party barked a laugh, and both of them grinned, though tears were still streaming down their faces. It didn't matter anymore. Now they were alive together. 

The following morning, they told Ghoul and Jet.  
“Oh, I thought Kobra had a crush on you.”  
“Gross!”

**Author's Note:**

> When I told my sibling I was writing a fic with trans Kobra Kid they told me I'm self-projecting and honestly, they're right


End file.
